Footprints Through the Snow
by Alice Wright
Summary: A series of shorts in response to Hades Lord of the Dead's "December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness." Rated T as somewhere along the line when you write Holmes there's almost sure to be blood.
1. Watson's Moustache

Thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing this event!

One caveat: The first few days I may be a little tardy in posting my entries. Until December 8th, I have other time sensitive projects that I need to take care of. I will try to post on the day after that point.

Prompt from embracetheweird: Watson's moustache is burnt off. How do he and Holmes react?

* * *

"I'm very sorry, old boy," Holmes said for what felt like the millionth time.

I put some more cold water on the white cloth Mrs. Hudson had lent me and held it under my nose, not feeling quite in the mood to reassure my friend. The smell of burnt hair still radiated throughout the room, despite Mrs. Hudson's attempts at airing it out and my upper lip and nose still stung. I had already put salve on the wound, but it seemed that the best way to soothe the pain was to apply a cold compress. I had asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up some water and for the last half an hour I'd been dipping the cloth into it every few minutes and applying it to my lips. For that same period of time, Holmes had sat across from me, an exceedingly worried look on his face.

"Had I known that the experiment was going to result in such an abundance of flames I would have never let you near it," said he in response to my silence.

"Yes, I know, Holmes," I replied. I removed the cloth from my face again and dipped it in the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a fraction of a cringe from Holmes at the sight of my burned lip. My moustache was completely gone as it had been in the way of properly treating the wound, not to mention singed beyond any barber's care.

As I applied the cloth to my face once again, it occurred to me that Holmes had probably never seen me without my moustache. I had grown it in Afghanistan and had found that the look suited me. It dignified what was otherwise a rather child-like face and made me look wise, both of which were of absolute necessity when dealing with young soldiers who thought they were immortal. Since then it had become almost an essential part of my image. Thus, it was no surprise that I found Holmes looking at me as if I were another person.

"I really am very sorry, Watson," said Holmes.

I sighed and removed the cloth from my lip long enough to speak. "It's alright, Holmes," said I in my best bedside manner voice. "Anyone could have made the same mistake."

Holmes glanced at me then gave a curt nod. I could see that he still felt responsible for my injury, but he seemed to have relaxed somewhat upon receiving my forgiveness. His fingers had stopped drumming on the arm of his chair and his gaze occasionally strayed from his intense scrutiny of me and my injury.

"You know," said Holmes as I removed the cloth to dip it in the water again. "You look remarkably younger without your moustache."

"Oh?" said I as I wrung out the cloth.

"Yes. If I did not know you so intimately, I would place you at no more than thirty—that is taking only your face into account. Your mode of dress and general conduct reveal that you are in fact older."

Unsure whether to take this as a compliment or not, I simply nodded and placed the cloth back over my lip.

"However, were you to change your pattern of dress and conceal some of the pain in your shoulder, and perhaps your military gait, you might very well fool the average man into thinking you a young doctor."

"Glad to know this might be of some use," I grumbled from beneath the cloth. Holmes did not seem to hear me. Instead, he continued to talk about how I might make myself appear younger now that my moustache was gone. In the end, I ended up having to retreat to my own room in order to escape it and there quickly fell into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

The next morning, I rose from bed feeling a little better. The pain in my lip and nose had subsided and I reasoned that I could get through the day just using the salve. I went downstairs, hoping maybe a good breakfast would keep my mind off the remaining pain.

I entered the front room to see Holmes draped over the sofa in his usual manner. The moment he saw me he leapt up from the sofa and positioned himself by the fireplace with his back to me.

"Holmes?" said I. "What on earth are you doing?"

His brow furrowed and he turned to me with a look of confusion. Suddenly, his posture relaxed and he sat back down on the sofa. "Nothing, Watson," said he in what I could tell was a purposefully blasé tone. "Good morning."

I frowned and sat down at the breakfast table. Mrs. Hudson had prepared a nice breakfast of egg, toast, and a little bit of ham. As I was reaching for the butter, a thought occurred to me.

"Holmes?" said I. "You didn't happen to think I was a client, did you?"

"Of course not, my dear fellow," said he. "Don't be ridiculous."

I looked to my companion, only to see that he had hidden his face with a newspaper.

"Sorry, Holmes," said I, a bit of a grin spreading across my face. "It's just that I've never seen you position yourself by the fireplace like that unless a client had entered."

"Has it occurred to you, Watson, that I might have had a momentary chill?" said Holmes from behind his paper mask.

"I should hope not. A chill that momentary would be a sign of severe illness," said I.

The paper rustled.

"Should I fetch my kit?"

"I wouldn't trouble you over it," said he.

I smiled and took a bite of toast, taking a moment to revel in my friend's discomfort as he so often did in mine.

* * *

With time, my moustache grew back, though in a slightly darker color than I had anticipated. While Holmes had borne the change bravely, I could see that he was relieved when I returned to Baker Street one afternoon, my hair cut and my moustache freshly clipped.

"Ah, Watson," said he, setting down the paper he had been reading. "You look like your old self again."

"My _old _self. Well," said I, barely able to keep the grin off of my face. "Perhaps I should ask the barber to shave it off again. I've been told that it takes ten years off my face."

"Not a bit, my dear doctor, not a bit," said Holmes. "You should stay exactly as you are."

* * *

A little fluffy around the edges, but I suppose that's occasionally allowed.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	2. A Problematic Present

Alright, so I'm finally free to update this. I'll try to get all of them done as quickly as possible until I'm at an even pace with everyone, but please bear in mind that I'm having to play catch up. Also, I take the prompts very seriously and want to produce good work by them, so perfectionism may also be slowing me down.

Thanks to mrspencil, ImaLateBloomer, Sparky Dorian, Ennui Enigma, Spockologist, HLoD, cjnwriter, Book girl fan, and I'm Nova for their wonderful reviews!

December 3rd prompt from ImaLateBloomer: Holmes shops for a gift for Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

"_What the deuce is it that women want?" _

So thought the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, as he scoured through what seemed like hundreds of shops. He had been told by Watson to keep away from anything practical as a general rule, though Holmes could hardly see why Mrs. Hudson wouldn't want a new duster. It would make her job easier and perhaps save some of his more delicate chemical apparati from being knocked over. However, Watson had absolutely forbid anything having to do with cleaning or cooking.

"Get her something that she'll enjoy, Holmes," said he. "Not something to do with her work."

So now, after making his way through the drapers, the jewelers, the watchmakers, the cobblers, and several departmental stores, Holmes was faced with a milliner's shop and the nagging question of why women felt the need for fifteen different shades of the same basic color and if Mrs. Hudson had any preference on the subject.

"Perhaps I should go elsewhere," he thought, noting the abundance of ribbons and feathers on most of the articles. Surely women did not need such things. Yet, he supposed, that was rather the point. Watson had indicated that women do not like to be bought things that are of use and Holmes certainly could not see the use in any of the things in front of him. Muttering to himself about the idiocy of womankind, he picked up the hat closest to him. It was a garish green article with very small brim and a giant white feather swooping across the top of it and landing clumsily on the other side. It did not look appealing in the least, yet it was marked at three pounds. Frowning, Holmes thought back to when he'd last seen Mrs. Hudson wearing a hat. It had been dark blue with a wide brim, relatively simple altogether. He looked around. None of the hats around him even remotely fit that description. Putting the hat he was holding down with a motion of disgust, he marched over to the milliner.

"What is the most popular hat you sell?" he asked.

"Most popular hat, sir?" the milliner responded with a look of surprise. "Eh, there are many different hats that sell well. Is there something you were looking for in par…"

"Just give me something for a sixty year old woman with rheumatism," Holmes said, holding out his hand.

The milliner frowned. "Do you know if she has a style she prefers?"

"How the deuce would I know that?" Holmes cried, causing several of the other customers to turn around in shock.

"Sir, I'm afraid I cannot help you unless you are able to give me more specifics about what it is that you want."

"I told you! A hat for a sixty year old woman with rheumatism! Isn't there a hat for that function?"

The milliner adjusted his cravat nervously. "There are some hats which are popular with our older customers, if… if that's what you mean. Is, eh… is there a color you're looking for?"

"Blue," Holmes said, trying to keep his tone even.

The milliner looked about nervously, almost afraid to state his next question. "Is there a p…particular kind of b…blue, you would p…prefer?" he stuttered, though he guessed that he knew the answer.

With that, Holmes gave a great huff and stalked out of the building, leaving a trail of shocked faces in his wake.

* * *

"Holmes? Is something wrong?"

The detective had been lying on the sofa for the past hour, his eyes tightly closed and his finger drumming against the side of the furniture in what would most accurately be described as tempo _allegro vivace_. Usually, Watson would pay no attention to such behavior. It was, after all, Holmes' usual state when without a case. Today, however, there seemed to be something off.

"Holmes?" he repeated, crossing over to his friend's desk. He opened the drawer that he knew contained Holmes' "artificial stimulants" only to find both bottle and needle untouched. Half relieved and half concerned, he walked over to where his friend lay on the couch. "Holmes?"

No response.

"Is something wrong?"

"Ah Watson," said Holmes. "Why can't buying a gift for a woman be simpler. I know precisely what to get you just by looking at you, but women are so much more… devious."

"What woman, Holmes?" Watson said, surprised at such a turn of events.

"Mrs. Hudson!" cried Holmes. He stood and walked over to the mantelpiece, taking up his pipe and reaching for the Persian slipper. "Women are simply impossible, Watson. Simply impossible."

The doctor could not help giving a little sigh of relief. Even the idea of Holmes having developed romantic feelings towards someone was frightening, not to mention beyond belief.

Holmes noticed the doctor's relieved expression. "Oh, my dear Watson," said he, barely able to conceal his laughter. "You seriously did not think I had developed a romantic attachment since leaving Baker Street this morning?"

"Of course not, Holmes," said Watson, trying to regain his composure. "As for Mrs. Hudson, I think I may have a solution to your problem."

* * *

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you shouldn't have!" Mrs. Hudson cried as he held out to her a package elegantly wrapped in red and gold striped paper. It was Christmas morning and the three of them were sitting around the kitchen table after finishing a meal of cinnamon buns, cranberry muffins, apple tarts, spiced eggnog, and roasted chestnuts. Watson had insisted that the two of them eat their breakfast in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson both out of a sense of community and due to Mrs. Hudson's extravagance in both delicacy and proportion. She wiped her hands clean on her apron and took the package from the detective's outstretched hand. Setting it on the table, she carefully tore open the wrapping paper and opened the cardboard box. Inside was a little wooden box intricately carved with birds and leaves. She opened it and the sound of Brahm's "Piano Quartet in G Minor" came ringing through the air. "Oh Mr. Holmes," she said, tears in her eyes. "It is absolutely perfect. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, giving Watson a sidelong glance.

"And from me," the doctor said, holding out a package wrapped in a red and white swirled pattern.

"Oh, Dr. Watson," she said. She took the package and carefully unwrapped it as she had before. Inside was a beautiful silver necklace with a crystal charm in the shape of a snowflake on the end. She looked from Dr. Watson to Holmes with a look of astonishment.

"Now you will have something to put in your music box," Dr. Watson said, smiling.

"Oh, Dr. Watson… Mr. Holmes… it's too much!"

"Nonsense!" cried Holmes with a wave of his hand.

"It's the least we could do after making us such a wonderful breakfast."

"And," he added, more quietly. "For putting up with a certain someone."

Mrs. Hudson giggled.

"I heard that you know," said Holmes with mock solemnity. "And I would have you know that I am a perfect tenant."

"Of course you are, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, giving Dr. Watson a little wink. "I wouldn't have any other tenants besides you and Dr. Watson."

* * *

"However did you notice that she liked music boxes?" Holmes said as they made their way up to 221B.

Watson suppressed a smile. "Why Holmes," he said. "It was perfectly simple. When we first began to lodge here, I mentioned the subject and she showed me her collection. No doubt you have heard them playing downstairs."

Holmes opened his mouth to retort, but found no words.

Now Watson was smiling openly. "As ever," he said as Holmes opened the door. "You see but you do not observe."

* * *

I may update this, along with other entries, as I go along.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	3. Pickpocketing

This one is actually based on the prompt for December 5th, but, as it was completed sooner, I felt it ought to go up before the one for December 4th. Catching up, bit by bit!

December 5th prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: A character is pick-pocketed!

* * *

"Holmes, have you seen my key?"

"Yes, Watson."

"Well, where is it?"

Holmes sat back in his chair, his eyes darting back and forth as he performed his mental calculations. "I should say it is in Birmingham by now."

"Birmingham?" Watson cried. "What should my key be doing in Birmingham?"

"Well, that's obviously the town from which the man who pickpocketed it last night on the train comes. I suppose he could have gone to Manchester, but that would be something of a stretch."

"It was pickpocketed?"

"Yes, Watson. To be perfectly honest, I was surprised you didn't notice. He was in very poor form."

"You mean to tell me that I was pickpocketed on a train and you just sat there and watched?"

"Had it been anything of particular value, I would have drawn your attention to it. As it was, your billfold was in your inner coat pocket and your watch hidden beneath your coat. The fellow scarcely had enough talent to steal your wedding ring from you. All in all, it was a relatively harmless act."

"Harmless!" exclaimed the poor doctor. "Holmes, I have been stolen from!"

"I have already called for a locksmith to have the locks replaced. You should have your new key by Monday morning."

"That is not the point, Holmes. The point is that you watched while a crime was being committed on me and said nothing."

"What was there to say? Your key was being stolen from you. Had I alerted the thief, he should have scampered off as quickly as possible and caused absolute chaos on the train. As it was, I was able to study him in depth and determine where your key may very well be without causing a fuss on the train. I have alerted the police in Birmingham and they should be on the lookout for the thief. If you have a more satisfactory solution, pray tell it to me before the scent gets too cold."

Watson grumbled to himself, even though he knew that Holmes was right.

"Just…next time, Holmes," he said with some bitterness. "If it is not too much of an inconvenience, might you tell me when a crime is being perpetrated on my person?"

"Of course, my dear fellow," said Holmes, the sarcasm lost on him. "Consider it done."

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	4. Heartless

I apologize for the truly random order of these entries. My perfectionism and the remnants of the flu have made some of the stories come more slowly than others. I shall try to fill the gaps as quickly as possible while still maintaining quality.

December 7th Prompt from Sparky Dorian - Holmes and Watson have just finished a case that did not end well

* * *

"Holmes, you really shouldn't take it so personally."

My friend paused in his ministrations on the violin. "Whoever said that I have?"

"No one, Holmes," said I, pouring myself another cup of tea. "Sorry to have brought it up."

He frowned and went back to his fiddling—a plaintive tune that was both haunting and heart-wrenching.

Despite his protestations, I could tell that the loss had affected him deeply. It had, after all, resulted in the hanging of an innocent man and the orphaning of a five-year-old boy. Holmes, far from his usual manner, had taken it upon himself to escort the boy to the orphanage and had made sure to exact a promise from the man in charge that, should the boy not be adopted within the next year, he should be sent word so that he might broaden the search.

To think that so much could depend on the disappearance of a few fingerprints! I could hear in Holmes' playing his anger at having been "so blind" as he had put it as to not point the evidence out to Scotland Yard as soon as he had spied it. He had not counted on his main piece of evidence being discovered by the true murderer and destroyed before he could spin all the facts together and lay them out before Lestrade. Now there was a man dead and a child without a father.

As I watched my friend set down his violin and gaze out at the snowy street below us with a pensive air, I could not help but think that, for a man so often thought to be cold and heartless, he truly was a sensitive soul.

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	5. Shooting Star

Another short entry. The moment I saw this prompt I thought "metaphor" so here's a poetic piece.

December 8th prompt from I'm Nova- Shooting Star

* * *

From the diary of John H. Watson: December 8, 1891

He was just like a shooting star

The kind that shine so bright

That you're completely dazzled by

Their truly heavenly light.

But like so many shooting stars

Their brightness then does fade.

From out the sky they disappear

And all that's left is shade.

~O~

So much for trying my hand at poetry. You'd think someone who's regularly published in the Strand would be able to create an elegy for his dearest friend without trouble.

Perhaps Holmes was right about my writing.

I miss him.

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always.


	6. A Surreptitious System

Catching up somewhat. Bit by bit, getting things together.

December 9th Prompt from embracetheweird: "Tidy your room!"

NB: I have Sherlock as around 8 years old here, making Mycroft about 15.

* * *

"Tidy your room!"

"No!" cried the young Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft put his thumb and forefinger against his nose in his signature expression of impatience.

"Sherlock, if you do not tidy your room, you shall not have pudding for a month," the elder Holmes threatened.

"That's not true," Sherlock said, calling his brother's bluff. He glanced at the chemistry textbook he was flipping through before adding, "That's cook's decision, not yours."

"I could persuade her," Mycroft replied. "I'm sure she has just as much distaste for little boys who do not clean their rooms as Mother and I do."

"Mother doesn't care," the younger Holmes retorted as he added a bit of ammonium nitrate to his chemical concoction. "She knows I have a system."

"Oh? And what, pray tell, is that?"

Without looking, Sherlock pointed behind him to the bedside table. "All schoolwork goes on the bedside table. Chemistry work and apparati go next to the window unless they are light sensitive in which case they go on the top shelf of the closet. Clothes that are clean go on the straight-backed chair; dirtied ones in the space behind the chair. The microscope remains in the closet next to the plaster of Paris skeleton and the extra tyre for my bicycle. Fresh paper and ink remain on the left side of the desk unless in use. The bottom two drawers are for chemicals and the top one for extra pencils and curiosities. The literature which Father inflicts upon us goes under the bed unless I know he's coming to see my room. Then, they go with the schoolwork on the bedside table. Have I left anything out?"

"Yes," said Mycroft. "Where do you fit in this equation?"

"Either on the bed or in this chair of course." He turned to face his brother with a look of smug satisfaction. "Really, Mycroft, you _are_ getting dense."

The elder Holmes grit his teeth, but otherwise kept his composure. Not that his little brother would have noticed. He was already focused on his chemicals again. "So, as you can see, I do have a system," Sherlock added as he mixed his solution. "You simply are not clever enough to observe it."

"I see," said Mycroft. He paused for a moment before adding, "Do you think Father would be clever enough to observe this system of yours?"

Sherlock turned to his elder brother with an expression of horror. "You wouldn't!"

"I most certainly would," Mycroft replied. "So I suggest you find a system that is more conducive to the average intellect, or else face his wrath."

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Fine," he murmured after awhile. "I'll put things away."

"Thank you, brother dearest," Mycroft replied, a hint of a smirk crossing his lips. He closed the door to his brother's room, merely adding as he closed it, "I'll leave you to your experiments."

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	7. Hidden Faces

Still trying to catch up.

December 10th Prompt from HLotD: Masquerade

* * *

Mary and I had been married about a year when I was called in to care for the son of a count (whose name and full title I may not disclose here for the sake of decency). The count's son was a war veteran, like myself, and had received a bullet to his left arm. The injury flared up from time to time, especially when there was bad weather, causing him the utmost pain. The son remembered me from his days in Afghanistan and, when all of the other doctors had proved to no avail, had suggested me as a possibility. Thus, I was sent for and, much to my delight, was able to soothe the injury somewhat. Her ladyship was most grateful for my services towards her son and, in reward for my services, had awarded Mary and I invitations to her latest masked ball—on top of the usual fee. Mary was in a flurry of excitement, getting a long length of blue silk and fashioning herself a dress out of it. I, in turn, spent the better part of an afternoon getting masks for the two of us. In the end, I got a delicate gold-painted eye-mask with a white stick for my wife and a simple black and white half-mask for myself.

We arrived at the masque at precisely half-past six. For the first few dances, I was able to dance with my lovely wife, but by the fifth my leg was beginning to bother me. Luckily, the count's son was at hand and offered to dance with my wife while I recuperated. Knowing her to be in safe hands, I agreed and sat down on one of the many white marble benches that lined the dance floor.

Scarcely two dances had passed before I heard footsteps behind me.

"Watson," whispered a low, sharp voice.

I whipped around to see a tall, gaunt figure in a silver mask turco—a bird-like mask with exaggerated wrinkles around the forehead. I could not see the man's mouth for the long beak, so he appeared entirely expressionless as I stared at him. Furthermore, his solid black inverness kept me from seeing any body language that might identify him or show his intentions. Overall, the effect was that of a giant silver and black hawk looking at me over its beak.

"That is my name, sir," said I from behind my own mask. I turned on the bench so that I might face this man more fully. "What might I do for you?"

The bird-man looked at me curiously then adjusted his black inverness in what looked remarkably like a ruffle of feathers.

"Come now, Watson, do you really not know me?" said the figure in the voice of my dear friend.

"Holm-!"

My friend put a finger to his lips under the mask. "Watson, I pray do not expose me."

"Expose you?" I murmured. "Are you in some danger?"

I could almost see my friend smile. "Some. Not much," said he. He looked across the ballroom, revealing that there was indeed a smile on his face. "Enough that I wish for my presence to remain unknown."

I nodded, though inwardly I was worried for my friend. "Had I known, I would have brought my revolver," I grumbled.

"Not all things can be solved with your revolver," said Holmes, not removing his gaze from across the ballroom. "And I doubt our hostess would approve of a duel in her ballroom. No, no, no, this is much more delicate."

"Nonetheless, I wish you had told me about this, Ho-" I cut myself short at a glare from Holmes.

"There is nothing to tell," said he commandingly. He turned his gaze back to the ballroom. "I am involved in what one might call my normal work."

"Nothing about your work is 'normal,' old boy," said I, earning myself a small chortle.

"Quite right. Nonetheless, it would be in both our best interests if I were not to alert my biographer to the details of this case at present."

He said the word "biographer" with enough good humor that I did not feel the need to contradict him. I was still worried about him though.

"Should you need me," said I. "You know where to find me."

Holmes turned his gaze back to me. This time I could see the smile in his eyes and did not need the additional clue of his mouth. "As ever, my dearest friend," said he.

Then, with a swoop of his black inverness, he disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

I actually collect masks in my spare time, so this was an especially fun one for me. The first thing I thought of when I saw the prompt was of the very first mask I collected—a silver Venetian turco, though I scarcely knew that at the time—and thought how perfect it would be on Holmes.

If you were to look up a Venetian turco, you might see how Watson might not recognize his friend in this. The turco is a true mask in terms of hiding people's features. You can really only see top of the forehead and the lower part of the cheeks when met with it head-on. When in profile, you can see the chin and the mouth, but little else. It's truly a magnificent mask to play with as it inspires almost constant motion.

Alright, lecture over. Hope I haven't freaked anyone out. I just really love masks.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	8. Babysitting

Sorry this one is so late. I just got so caught up in the story, especially since the prompt kind of coincided with a work I was already doing. So several edits, "How am I supposed to do that?"s, and hours of writing later, here it is. Enjoy!

Thank you to mrspencil, Ennui Enigma, and Sparky Dorian for their wonderful reviews!

December 4th Prompt from Aleine Skyfire: Holmes babysits Watson's child (around 1900).

NB: This story is told from two viewpoints-from Watson and Watson's child. I think you can tell which is which without the need for me putting it in another font. If not, please tell me so and I will change it so that it is easier to read. Also, for the purposes of this short (though I suppose I should hardly call it that), Holmes' full name is Sherlock Alexandre Holmes. The "Alexandre" comes from one of his father's favorite authors, Alexandre Dumas.

Extra NB: I've added a bit more of Watson's child than there was previously. Please tell me if this was a good idea or not.

* * *

Holmes and I had not mentioned my life outside of Baker Street since he came back from his apparent death. I had been living in Kensington and came to visit Holmes at our old lodgings as often as I could. As far as I could tell, it was Holmes' desire that things should go back to the way they were before his disappearance, perhaps with a little more of my presence. I was not entirely adverse to the idea, having realized how greatly I valued his company during the three years I thought to never see him again. However, circumstances had changed in those three years. I had lost a wife and gained a daughter, and, though I loved her dearly, single parenthood was taking a toll on both my nerves and my health.

This became all the more apparent one day in December when Holmes and I were sitting by the fireside having a glass of scotch.

"Watson, I am surprised that you still have a practice," said he.

I frowned and gave him a look over my glass of scotch. "Oh? And why is that, Holmes?"

He set his glass of scotch on the table next to him before turning his gaze back to me. "For the past six months, you have been paler than I have ever seen you. You have lost ten pounds and seem to be on the verge of developing consumption. My dear fellow, as your friend and companion, I must tell you 'Physician, heal thyself.'"

I chuckled half-heartedly at his jest. It was true; I had grown paler and thinner. The cough was a result of working late hours in the damp and the cold.

What's more my daughter had come home for Christmas from boarding school and I still had little idea how to care for the child. I had grown in my knowledge of children since my widowing. I had learned how to change diapers and how to soothe a child to sleep. I had learned firsthand that giving my daughter whatever she wanted was not for the best when I let her choose whatever she wanted from the candy store and eat it too—the result of which was a long night of illness. I had even learned to distinguish between some of the different types of dolls that my little girl was always eyeing and which is suited for which age group. Nonetheless, in some things I was entirely hopeless. Caring for a girl's hair is something I believe I shall never get the hang of nor dressing one for a formal event. The question of food I had long conceded to the cook and conversation was a struggle. Nonetheless, I tried to be around her as much as possible and, though I love her with more than my heart, her companionship and my increased work hours were taking an undue strain on me and my nerves.

So it was that I smiled at the great detective, whom so far I had been able to keep in the dark, and simply stated, "I'm afraid that's impossible, Holmes."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh? How so? Surely the man who is so insistent upon the health of others, as I personally can attest, can spare a bit of care for himself."

"Not in these conditions," said I, leaning back in my chair and taking another sip of scotch.

Holmes looked at me intensely for a moment. Finally, he turned his head and laced his fingers over his stomach. "I see," he said. "This is about the child, isn't it?"

"Holmes!" I cried, utterly surprised at his outburst.

"Oh come now, Watson, do you really think that something so obvious should have escaped me?" He steepled his fingers and looked towards me. "The real question is why you haven't chosen to tell me straight out that you have a child, instead leaving it to my powers of deduction."

"I did not think such things would interest you," said I, still taken a back by his sudden revelation.

"Oh, Watson, after so many years you still understand so little," said he with a sigh. He crossed his legs and tapped his foot against the chair in what was clearly a sign of agitation. "Of course I would want to know if you have become a father. I have an interest in your affairs as you do mine. Is that not what friendship is?"

"I suppose so, Holmes," I replied.

At this, he got up from his chair and stood by the fireplace. "Then, pray, tell me what has happened since my disappearance," said he. "Otherwise, you shall be forced to hear my deduced version, which, I might add, would be highly unedited."

I sensed that he was trying to be funny with his remarks, but that his actual mood was far from gay. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"Your wife is dead," said he, apparently holding to his threat of the deduced version. "That much you have told me. Given the time frame your child cannot be over the age of nine nor under the age of six. It is a girl as can be indicated by the ribbons occasionally dangling from your pocket. You have sent the child to boarding school and have visited her there on some occasions… the ticket stubs, my dear fellow—in past visits. The evidence is not on your person now."

I stopped the search of my pockets and took another sip of scotch. "You have been very observant," said I.

"It is my trade," returned he coldly. He looked into the fireplace for a moment before saying, "Shall I continue, or might you care to take up the narrative?"

I sighed, motioned for Holmes to sit down, and took a last sip of scotch before telling my tale.

As I related the details of my daughter's birth and my wife's death, I could see a change coming over Holmes. He looked more morose than usual and had a kind of thoughtfulness to his expression. Upon hearing the details of my wife's death, how I had nursed her through a bout of pneumonia shortly after my daughter's birth only to have the disease consume her, he looked up at me with a sort of shocked expression, then back down at his hands, which he had steepled on his chest.

During the entirety of my story, he did not utter a word. When I had finally finished, he pursed his lips and said, "My dearest friend, why did you not tell me this earlier?"

For this I had little explanation. "I feared such knowledge might injure you, Holmes," was the best that I could do. "You are so focused on your work. My family affairs would be only so much grit in a finely tuned instrument."

"Nonsense," responded Holmes with some vehemence. "Do you think, Watson, that I am so delicate as to swoon over your familial affairs? You underestimate me." He walked over to the mantelpiece and took up one of the pipes from his collection—the one he used when he was in a particularly foul mood. "It is a bitter blow, Watson, to know that one's own friend does not trust him."

"It was not a matter of trust," said I. "Had it been a matter of trusting you I should have told you in a heartbeat."

He scoffed at that and took another draw from his pipe.

It was at this point that I began to get angry. "Think of your own actions concerning your disappearance!" I cried. "I thought you were dead for three years."

"There is no connection between the two," said Holmes, anger burning in his cheeks. "I kept myself hidden to protect your life and mine. Your choice was based merely on petty feelings and the ill conceived notion that I might suffer from your misfortune."

"The notion is not ill conceived. Those of us who have a heart often feel pain when someone close to them suffers," I retorted, my anger overriding my common sense. "I suppose I should have realized my mistake."

There was a heavy silence between us. Holmes puffed angrily away at his pipe and I sat staring into the fire, wondering what was to be done.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I said finally.

He dismissed my apology with a wave of his hand.

I stood and began to get my hat and coat, deciding that any action on my part would only make my friend angrier than he was already. Holmes resumed his seat by the fireplace, his pipe in hand, and continued to send cloud upon cloud of smoke into the air. I furrowed my brow and shrugged into my coat. Hat in hand, I began to make my way towards the door when a thought occurred to me.

"Her name is Alexandra," said I.

Holmes looked up from an inspection of his hands with a look of wonder. "Y…You named the child after me?"

Watson nodded. "The feminine version of course, and not with the French spelling."

"Naturally," Holmes said, still looking shocked. He walked across the room to fetch more tobacco. "H…How old is she…exactly?"

"She's eight," I said.

Holmes nodded.

"Well," said I, putting on my hat. "It was nice to see you again, Holmes."

"Just a moment," said he, holding out a thin forefinger.

I stopped at the door.

"Might…" said he. He swallowed and loosened his cravat. The words clearly did not come easily to him. "Might…" he repeated. "I… meet the child?"

"You want to meet Alexandra?"

He nodded.

I smiled broadly, some of my fears set at ease. "Of course, you might Holmes!" I cried. "We would be delighted!"

* * *

Papa held my hand and led me up the steps. He said that Uncle Holmes knew exactly how many there were. I tried to count them, but got distracted by the sound that one of the steps made when we stood on it and lost count. I told Papa that Uncle Holmes had to be really smart to remember how many steps there were. Papa laughed and said that Uncle Holmes was very smart. Very, very smart.

We went into a big room with windows and a fireplace and a whole bunch of tubes and glasses that shined in the light from the windows. A lot of black and white pictures were on the wall, including one of a great big waterfall just above the mantelpiece. It smelled funny in there like the inside of Papa's medical kit. I looked around for Uncle Holmes. I had never met him before and was very anxious that I might make a good impression. He wasn't there. I looked up at Papa. He had a funny look on his face like he had that one time that Nancy had spilt ink all over his medical files. He yelled "Holmes!" and I called too, but Papa didn't like that. He told me to be quiet and not to yell, even though he was yelling. That wasn't fair. I was about to say so when a man appeared out of the wall. I looked closer and saw there was a door there. He had on a dressing gown, but was already dressed. Maybe he'd just finished.

"Watson?" he said. He looked at me. His look made me feel funny like he knew where I'd hidden Nancy's boots and what I'd had for supper just by looking at me. It was like he could read my thoughts.

"Is this the child?" he said.

Papa nodded. "Alexandra, this is Uncle Holmes. Holmes, Alexandra."

I did my best to try to curtsey, but almost fell over.

Papa chuckled. Uncle Holmes just continued to look at me in his unnerving way.

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Watson," he said, breaking off his staring.

I looked down at my shoes. No one called me "Ms. Watson" except for the vicar and Nanny when I was in a lot of trouble. Papa had told me that Uncle Holmes was very set in his ways, though, and I suppose calling people "Ms." and "Mr." even when they're eight and a half years old was one of those ways.

"Alexandra, what do we say?" Papa prompted.

"Pleased to meet you too, Uncle Holmes," I murmured, too scared to say it any louder. I heard Papa's worried sigh and looked up to see him frowning. He wasn't happy. I looked back down at my shoes, afraid that I had indeed made a bad impression like Papa warned me not to do.

"Well, Watson," said Uncle Holmes. He was pulling his dressing gown tighter around him, though I didn't see the point since he was dressed already and it wasn't cold. "I suppose you had better be off on your rounds."

"Indeed," Papa said, looking at me. He kissed me on the forehead and said, "Be good for Uncle Holmes while I'm away. Promise?"

"I promise," I said, eager to make Papa happy after messing up my impression.

He smiled and ruffled my hair before looking at Uncle Holmes. "Mrs. Hudson is in charge of food. I asked her to bring up sandwiches around three o' clock."

Uncle Holmes nodded solemnly and looked at me again. I noticed now that he had grey eyes. Maybe that's what made his look so unnerving.

"I shall be back around a quarter past four," Papa added as he headed out onto the landing. "Be good."

With that, Papa shut the door, leaving me with Uncle Holmes.

Uncle Holmes continued to stare at me. Eventually, I began to stare back.

* * *

It was not the best of ideas, leaving Holmes to take care of Alexandra, but I could see no other option. Our nanny had recently resigned in order to take care of her ailing father and finding a new one on such short notice was out of the question. I refused to take her on my rounds, afraid that her delicate body might catch some of the many diseases that my system had hardened to. Nonetheless, I hesitated to think how my little girl might react to my eccentric friend. She was a shy child overall, all eyes and ears—truly a tribute to her namesake.

Despite their similarities, the idea of leaving the two of them alone together was enough to cause me to worry. I believe I imagined every sort of scenario that might occur in those two hours. Holmes could have set the building on fire or Alexandra could have accidently swallowed some of his chemicals. Holmes could have used her in an experiment, my bulldog pup being unavailable, or kicked her out entirely. Alexandra could have broken some of Holmes' chemical equipment or burned some of his papers. One of my friend's more violent clients or adversaries might kidnap or injure her. The sheer range of sharp objects and dangerous substances that were housed in 221B became more and more apparent as I tended to Mrs. Werther, so much so that I began to wonder whether I should have just referred her to someone else rather than leaving my daughter with "Uncle Holmes."

Thus, it was much to my surprise that I returned to find everything intact and peaceful. At first, I thought that someone might be dead, so silent was the house. But when I peeped in the door, I could see that both man and girl were alive and well. Indeed, they were more than alive and well. Holmes was drawing on his blackboard and Alexandra was sitting attentively on the settee. He had written in big, bold letters at the top of the blackboard "The Art of Deduction." Under it, he had inscribed a series of words and arrows, no doubt the contents of the lecture he was giving to my daughter. Alexandra, far from her usual demeanor, was sitting up straight and openly asking questions. She seemed to be entirely enthralled by what Holmes was teaching her and more than eager to join in.

"Now, what can we deduce from this hat?" he asked, pointing to an old bowler of mine that he had set on the table.

Alexandra frowned at it for a second before going up to examine it more minutely. "It's not been worn lately," she said after a moment.

"And how did you deduce that?"

"There's dust all over it," she replied in a manner that vaguely resembled Holmes' own when he had to explain something he thought absurdly simple.

"Very good," said he, rubbing his thin hands together with glee. "What else?"

"The man who wore it has grey hair," she continued. Before Holmes could open his mouth she added, "There is a bit of it stuck in the fabric."

"Excellent," he said. "Go on."

Suddenly, her eyes lit up. "It's Papa's!" she exclaimed. "That's his cologne!"

"Well done!" Holmes said. I could have sworn I saw a hint of pride in his eyes. With a giggle, Alexandra put on my hat, which immediately sank over her ears and onto the bridge of her nose. She then nodded crisply as she'd seen me do many a time and moved over to the settee where she began to smoke an imaginary pipe. Holmes cut short her fun by removing the hat from her nose and putting it up on one of the higher shelves in the study. "I believe, young lady," he said as he curled up into his favorite armchair. "That you have just outdone Watson. It took nearly four times as long to get him to learn to use his sense of smell."

"Well, it's harder to teach an old dog new tricks," said I as I opened the door. Holmes looked up at me curiously, having been too absorbed in his task to hear my footsteps. Alexandra leapt up from the settee and ran across the room to give me a hug.

"Papa! Uncle Holmes has been teaching me the art of de-duc-shun," she cried as she removed herself from my middle.

At this point, Holmes seemed to realize that my entrance would be a perfect chance to try his student on a live person. "Can you deduce where your father has been, Ms. Watson?"

Alexandra wrinkled her nose at him and said, "That's easy." She looked up at me. "You went to Mrs. Werther's. 1345 Crawford Street."

Holmes seemed puzzled by this.

"And how did you deduce that?" he asked, trying to keep his tone completely nonchalant.

Alexandra looked at him, a curious expression on her face. "Because Papa told me to go there if the building caught fire," she stated simply.

I blushed and smiled sheepishly at Holmes. However, far from taking it personally, I saw that he was convulsing with silent laughter.

"Your father has certainly taken every precaution," he said, removing himself from his armchair. He gave me a fond smile. "I should hope that this little experiment should ease his mind somewhat on the subject."

"Indeed it has," I replied. I wrapped my arms around Alexandra before looking back at Holmes. "Consider yourself hired."

Holmes furrowed his brow at this. "Hired?" said he. "For what?"

"Why for the case of the missing nanny of course," said I.

Holmes all but rolled his eyes at me, though I could clearly see that were I to put her in his care for a longer period of time he would be more than willing to do so—that is, if he had no pressing cases. Even then, if I judged right, he would likely take her along. However, that was something I was not willing to risk.

As if to cement my thoughts, Alexandra turned to Holmes and said, "When is the bad guy coming?"

"Bad guy?" I repeated with some incredulity. I raised an eyebrow at Holmes.

"I believe she means Mr. Palmer," said he, settling back into his armchair.

"Mr. Palmer? Holmes!" I cried. "You don't mean that dreadful strangling case?"

Holmes looked at me over his shoulder. "I assure you, Watson, that had Mr. Palmer decided to come early to our appointment Alexandra would not be in the least harm."

"Uncle Holmes said I could watch if I was very quiet and didn't…"

"That is enough out of you, young lady," said Holmes in his imperious tone.

I let out a sigh through my nose and decided that, should I ever do this again, I would certainly put Mrs. Hudson on duty to make sure that reasonable safety was maintained.

"Say goodbye to Uncle Holmes, Alexandra," I instructed, taking her by the hand.

"Goodbye Uncle Holmes!" she cried. "I hope you catch the bad guy!"

"Thank you, Ms. Watson," Holmes said. "A pleasant journey to both you and your father."

* * *

I didn't know why Papa was so eager to get home. I really wanted to work on my new deduction skills and kept pointing out things about the people who passed us to him. He didn't seem to like that. He said Uncle Holmes did that and it wasn't "lady-like behavior" or "gentlemanly" either. I pouted my lips, but didn't say anymore, even though it wasn't fair that Uncle Holmes was allowed to do talk about people and I wasn't. Maybe when I grow up I'll be able to talk about people like Uncle Holmes and wear big boots like Papa and go out on adventures.

I really did want to see the bad guy. I'd never seen a bad guy before. I imagined they looked something like weasels, but without fur or ears on the top of their heads or tails. They almost certainly had to have sharp pointy teeth, though.

I asked Papa about it at dinner and he nearly spit out his soup. He told me that bad guys looked just like ordinary people and very rarely had sharp pointy teeth.

"Then how are you supposed to be able to tell them from the good guys?" I asked.

Papa looked down at his soup for a moment before saying, "You really can't, my darling. It's all a matter of getting to know a person."

I frowned and looked down at my soup. It was pea soup, which I hated. I could understand Papa spitting it out. "But if you can't tell who's a bad guy," I said after much thought. "Then how do the police know who to arrest?"

"That's where Uncle Holmes comes in," Papa replied. "He helps figure out who the bad guy is so that they aren't mistaken for good guys and vice versa."

"Vice versa?"

"The other way around," Papa said by way of explanation.

"So Uncle Holmes is a bad guy detector," I said, finally catching on.

"In a way, yes," Papa said, smiling. "Now eat your pea soup before it gets cold."

After dinner, I went upstairs to wash my face and change into my nightclothes. By the time I was done, Papa was there with a story to read me. He always reads me stories before I go to bed.

"This one," he said, holding up a copy of the Strand. "Is about Uncle Holmes."

"What else?" I asked as I climbed into bed.

"It's about the first time I ever met Holmes," said Papa. "And how we began to solve crimes together."

I wriggled under the sheets and looked at him with expectant eyes. He smiled and turned to the part of the magazine he had dogeared. "In the year 1878," he began. "I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London..."

I had fallen asleep before he had finished the story. Papa has a soothing voice and I can never stay awake very long when he reads to me. I was woken up by him adjusting the covers on the bed.

"Papa," I croaked sleepily. "Might I come visit Uncle Holmes again?"

Papa smiled at me. "We'll see, Alexandra," he said.

I closed my eyes. That almost certainly meant "yes" if I behaved myself and didn't steal any sweets from the cupboard.

Papa kissed me on the forehead and blew out the light. "Goodnight my little angel," he whispered before closing the door.

* * *

"She has a remarkable knack for it, Watson. Were she a boy, I would take her on as a pupil."

I sat in my usual chair, once again with a glass of scotch in my hand. Since I had arrived, Holmes had not stopped talking about my daughter. He found her very interesting and praised her deductive abilities and ability to think. This was very high praise coming from Holmes. All the same, I mentally thanked God that Alexandra was a girl. One Holmes was quite enough for my nerves.

"I'm glad the two of you get along," said I. I set down my glass of scotch and looked at him sternly. "But, Holmes, you must promise me something."

"What is it?" he asked, looking concerned.

"You must never put Alexandra in danger. I risk my life with you knowing full well what I am doing, but she is merely a child. She doesn't know what is dangerous and what is not."

"Watson! Do you think me a complete fool?" Holmes exclaimed, getting up from his chair. I believe he was even more furious than when I first revealed the details of her existence. "I would never put her in danger!"

"Holmes, you scheduled an appointment with a murderer and with my daughter on the same day," I reminded him.

He threw up his hands in a disgusted motion. "A mere coincidence, Watson. It shall not happen again."

"You said she could watch."

This was enough to give Holmes pause. "I admit that may have been somewhat... foolish of me," said he. He took a cigarette from a case on the mantel and lit it with a coal from the fireplace. "Yet, I must insist that, were Mr. Palmer to be in the same room as your daughter, I would _happily_ place the full burden of danger on my own person rather than risk hers."

I was truly touched. Holmes had taken so strongly to my daughter that he was ready to protect her from anything, just as I was. All my fears for her vanished.

"Understood, Holmes," said I. "I understand completely."

* * *

Taking a bit of a risk by putting some of it from Alexandra's point of view, but I thought it might be interesting.

This one actually really touched home (part of why it took so long to write) because my father and his best friend, my godfather, are actually very similar to Watson and Holmes.

Anyways, sorry to bore you with my family life. I just thought an explanation might add some credibility to a Holmes interacting with children story, as so often they seem too saccharine or self-indulgent.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	9. Holding Back

December 11th Prompt from Lemon Zinger: Ten Word Challenge—Diligent, Effort, Ring, Anxious, Upheaval, Elusive, Gray, Funeral, Silence, Embarrass

Well, with the word "funeral" in there, I felt it only natural that it should be about Holmes' death. Sorry for being depressing… again.

The prompt words are italicized.

* * *

I had made a _diligent effort_, up until this point, to hide most of my grief from my dear Mary over my friend's untimely demise. I had made it through the _funeral_ arrangements, the _silence_ of the wake, the visitation, and even the ceremony itself with few tears. Even the resting of a black-painted coffin in the cold ground did not cause me to lose my composure.

But now, as I stood by his grave, the earth freshly covering a coffin filled with air, the tears that had _eluded_ me throughout the rest of the proceedings sprang to the surface. Mary _anxiously_ stood by my side as I wept for my friend and for a dear friendship that was forever lost.

It wasn't until the church-bells _rang_ seven that my wife put her arm around me and began to lead me away from the graveyard. I was embarrassed to have made such an unmanly show of grief in front of my wife, but she did not seem to mind. Indeed, I think it roused her own sympathies for I could see a tear or two glistening in her own eyes as we passed the church.

"Mary," said I softly.

She turned and gave me a look of utter pity. Had it been anyone else, I would not have finished my statement. I am not one to take other's pity after all. Instead, I croaked out, "Mary, I don't know what I shall do without him."

She took my hand and looked into my eyes, knowing that no words could soothe my heart. I squeezed hers and began walking down the path again, the _gray_ thoughts that had been weighing so heavily on my mind now spoken.

In this manner, we made our way back to Kensington.

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	10. Hugs and Kisses

December 12th Prompt Ennui Enigma: Four times Watson kissed, the fifth time he hugged.

I realize this is probably not canon, but I've not read _the_ _Sign of Four_, so I don't actually know how Mary was wooed.

Not primarily a poet, though sometimes I use alliteration like one.

* * *

A kiss is such a precious thing,

It's timing must be right

Here are the times that Watson kissed

They may yet shed some light.

First kiss was planted on the cheek

As one might well infer.

The second kiss was on the lips

When 'e bared his soul to her.

A kiss upon the day she said

"Yes" to the biographer

A fourth kiss on the wedding day

A day so full of bliss

The final time he hugged his wife

For a friend he'd sorely miss.

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	11. Engaging Evening

Sorry I'm so late. Illness has somewhat impeded me from writing these last few entries not to mention the bustle of the holidays.

December 14th prompt from Ennui Enigma: An Engaging Evening

NB: Again, I haven't read the Sign of Four. I apologize in advance if Doyle already wrote this scene and Holmes' reaction.

* * *

"Mary," said I as I knelt in the snow. We were in the middle of Hyde Park, where she and I had had our first legitimate outing unrelated to her father's disappearance. I held a box in my hand containing about two months wages in the shape of a diamond engagement ring. "Will you marry me?"

The next few moments seemed to me the longest of my life. Mary simply stared at the box and at me. Then, suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, falling to the ground herself. "Yes, John," she said, her head nestled against my shoulder. "I will."

* * *

No doubt my happiness at being accepted by my beloved Mary was visible in my features as I entered 221B, for the moment I set foot over the threshold Holmes said from his chair, "I take it you have some good news, doctor."

"Very good news indeed," I said. I hung up my coat and took off my gloves before adding, "Mary and I are to be engaged."

I suppose it was foolish of me to think that perhaps my friend might congratulate me on my success. However, I had expected some show of cheer at my good fortune. Instead, Holmes stoically picked up his pipe, lit it, and returned to his seat.

"Indeed?" said he, picking up one of the many papers and magazines that littered the room.

"Yes Holmes!" said I. I laughed in spite of myself. "I am engaged to be married to Mary Morstan! Isn't it wonderful?"

"I congratulate you," said he with no such congratulations in his voice. Indeed, he seemed colder and stonier than I had ever seen him.

Determined not to let my friend's foul mood disrupt my evening, I called to Mrs. Hudson for a bottle of champagne and some biscuits. "I tell you, Holmes," said I as I adjusted my cravat in the mirror. "I have been face to face with death many a time, but none of that compares with proposing to a woman. It is one of the most frightening experiences a man can face."

The rustle of paper was the only response I received from my friend.

"When she didn't answer me, I was damned sure that my heart was going to stop," said I, ignoring Holmes' reticence. "And when she said 'Yes'! Oh, Holmes, it was the most fantastic thing I have ever experienced."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered with the champagne. I thanked her and took the two glasses she had prepared and set one by Holmes. He merely glanced at it before returning to his reading.

"May I ask what the happy occasion is?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

I beamed from ear to ear. "I am engaged to be married, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good gracious!" said the dear landlady. She clasped her hands together and her eyes shone with excitement. "Imagine that! Oh, Dr. Watson, I'm sure you and Mary will prove to be a fine family."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said I.

"When is the wedding?" she asked.

"It will be in April. Mary wanted a spring wedding."

I could hear Holmes snort derisively from his chair, but chose to ignore it.

"Oh! How wonderful!" cried Mrs. Hudson. "When the flowers are all in bloom! My husband and I got married in the summer. Dreadful decision. It was far too hot to have more than five people in a room at a time, not to mention twenty. All the icing on the cake melt..."

"That'll do, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes from behind his paper. "Good evening."

"Good evening, sir," said she, blushing at her own indiscretion. She gave a small curtsey and left the room in haste.

"Holmes," said I, frowning over my glass of champagne. "Could you at least show some happiness at my good fortune?"

"I have already congratulated you," said he, not looking up from his paper. "What more do you want of me?"

"It is not what I want of you," said I, some of my anger slipping through to my voice. I set down my champagne glass on the table and looked at Holmes. "It is what is natural for a friend to do when he learns that his friend has found happiness."

"My dear Watson," said Holmes, getting up from his chair. "I shall be greatly surprised if you find that happiness resides in Ms. Morstan alone."

With that, he glided over to his bedroom and slammed the door.

I took up my glass of champagne and sat down on the couch. I could not believe that Holmes could act so coldly towards me, especially when I had just received some of the happiest news of my life. If he did not feel any joy for me, at very least he could feign cheer for my sake.

I took a gulp of champagne and glanced over at the magazine Holmes had been reading. It was a copy of the Strand that I had long ago tucked away and forgotten about. I picked up the paper and saw that it was turned the extraordinary case of Irene Adler. Towards the top of the page, circled in blue, were the words: "I would be lost without my Boswell."

* * *

**"The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone." -The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier.**

Poor Holmes! He doesn't know how to get on without his Boswell. And Watson is sorely hurt by his friend's seeming indifference to his happiness. It is not, altogether, the happiest of moments in their friendship.

Also, yes, I know. "A Scandal in Bohemia" was set after Watson's marriage. The thing seemed so perfect though that I decided to take some literary license and alter the timeline.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	12. Decorating

Trying to catch up bit by bit again.

December 15th prompt: Aleine Skyfire: Mrs. Hudson talks Holmes into helping her decorate for Christmas.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mr. Holmes?" the landlady said as she hung a wreath above the front door. Holmes stood at the foot of the ladder holding it in place.

"Remind me again how you managed to rope me into this ridiculous ceremony," said the detective.

Mrs. Hudson looked down at Mr. Holmes. He looked remarkably different from seven feet in the air than he did at her normal five foot three inches. She smiled and adjusted the red bow on the wreath of evergreen.

"It's quite simple, Mr. Holmes," said she as she fussed over the bow, making sure it was in the exact center. "You used my kitchen for your experiments, now I am using you to help me decorate."

"And did it not occur to you that my time could better be spent elsewhere?" inquired Holmes.

The elder woman placed her hands upon her hips. "Mr. Holmes, we both know you have been without a case for two weeks. You made that very apparent when you began shooting at the wall." The detective flinched slightly at the comment. Mrs. Hudson wiped what remained of the pine stalks from her hands with her holly-themed apron before descending the ladder. "Now, you shall help me with these decorations or else neither you nor Dr. Watson shall get any of those biscuits you deduced from my apron."

Holmes considered this for a second. "Watson _is _very fond of those biscuits," he finally conceded.

"Then you put this ladder away while I get the tinsel."

* * *

"It is absolutely beautiful, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said as he admired the tinsel covered staircase. "However did you manage to do all of this while I was gone?"

"Well, I had a little help," replied the landlady. At Watson's confused look, she pointed at the ceiling towards 221B and the sound of a fast-paced intricate tune being played on the violin.

Watson looked at Mrs. Hudson with even more astonishment than he had at the decorations. "You mean Holmes helped you do all this?" said he. "But he despises Christmas decorations!"

"I had a little leverage to ease him along," Mrs. Hudson replied, unable to keep the grin off her face any longer. "Which reminds me, will you take these upstairs when you go up? I'm afraid the roast will spoil if I don't attend to it."

"With pleasure," replied Watson as she handed him a tray full of an assortment of shortbread and gingerbread. He looked doubtfully at the plate and made a face somewhere between a pout and a smile. He looked back at Mrs. Hudson with his honest blue eyes and added, "Though I'm afraid some of them may not make it all the way upstairs."

"That's quite alright, Dr. Watson, they are for you and Mr. Holmes anyway," Mrs. Hudson said. "Whether you eat them upstairs or downstairs is scarcely my business. Just as long as you leave some for Mr. Holmes."

Dr. Watson smiled with all the glee of a five-year-old child.

It would be misleading to say that only a couple of biscuits disappeared from the tray before reaching 221B. Suffice it to say that, by the time Dr. Watson opened the door to their shared study, he had sampled at least one of every kind of biscuit and that Mrs. Hudson had made an array of different shapes.

"Holmes?" Watson cried as he set the tray down on the table, now tastefully covered by a red, holly-patterned tablecloth. When he received no response, he frowned, brushed some of the biscuit crumbs from his moustache, and called again. "Holmes?"

"In here, Watson," said the detective from his bedroom.

Watson furrowed his brow and walked over to Holmes' bedroom. "Holmes?" said he through the door. "What the devil are you doing in there?"

"It is the only place," came the answer. "That has not been infected with Mrs. Hudson's holiday sensibilities. Look around you, my dear fellow! Tinsel on the bannister, holiday knickknacks on the mantelpiece, a tree! I believe she even put some of that parasitic _Viscum album_ in our doorway."

"Why, so she did!" Watson replied, noticing the mistletoe. "But, Holmes, you can't remain in your room forever."

"You are quite right, Watson. However, I shall remain in here until Tuesday when this dreadful holiday is at an end and my _Aspidistra_ is returned to me."

"But Holmes!" the doctor protested. He looked over at the tray of biscuits on the table. "There are biscuits out here, Holmes," said Dr. Watson. When he heard no response he added, "Gingerbread ones."

He heard a rustle from inside the room then, scarcely before he could step aside, Holmes burst through the door, grabbed a handful of gingerbread, and retreated back to his room.

* * *

Little tip of the hat to the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes with the aspidistra.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	13. Peeking at Presents

I'm going to try to post these shorts as soon as I get them finished and, as I have all of the prompts, it seems that the most reasonable course of action is unfortunately the most disorganized one. I apologize to anyone who is trying to look up a prompt or story by date. I'm afraid you shall have to go by the chapter titles that I have provided.

Thank you to mrspencil and Ennui Enigma for their continued wonderful reviews!

December 18th Prompt from Wordwielder: Sneaking peeks at presents

* * *

"Sherlock, I told you that you are not allowed to sneak a peek at your presents," said Mycroft from the doorway. Underneath the tree sat a very curious (in every sense of the word) eight-year-old holding a wrapped box in his hand and examining it in the utmost detail.

"I'm not peeking!" Sherlock cried. "I'm merely examining."

"Well, stop your examining and get back to bed," said Mycroft. "Otherwise, Father Christmas shan't give you any presents."

"Father Christmas isn't real, remember?" the younger Holmes responded. "You told me so*."

"Well then _our_ father shall be angry if you don't get to bed," said the frustrated Mycroft. "Is that enough of a motivation for you?"

Sherlock shrugged and set the package down. "I already know what it is anyway," he said as he passed his brother.

"Oh?" said Mycroft. "What is it?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Socks."

* * *

"Holmes, you cheated!"

"I assure you, Watson, I did no such thing," said Holmes as he sat across from his friend at Baker Street.

"Then how on Earth did you know that I had gotten you new gloves?" cried Watson.

Holmes smiled at his friend's baffled expression through the smoke of his pipe. "It was a simple matter of deduction," said he. "Given a small package, one can approximate the size of the object inside. The package itself smelled of leather and I know that you do not know my shoe size after the unfortunate incidents of Christmas 1885. The package is not long enough to hold a riding crop, therefore the only probable contents were gloves."

Watson frowned and picked up the present he had put under the tree for Holmes. "I suppose I shall have to return it now," said he. "Now that you know what it is."

"My dear fellow, I assure you that I shall be happy to receive new gloves on Christmas morning," said Holmes. "That there is no surprise in such things is something that I long ago learned to accept."

"Long ago?" said Watson. "How long have you been deducing presents?"

Holmes merely smiled and took a long draw from his pipe.

* * *

*Reference to cjnwriter: "December 20"

My father actually wins the award for guessing presents. He was able to guess that one of his presents was "baby teeth" one Christmas a few years before I was born. Whatever compelled my grandmother to give my father his own baby teeth is another question entirely.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	14. Bucket

December 22nd Prompt from Rockztar: Write a 221B where the last word is bucket.

* * *

"What have you done with my bucket?"

"Bucket, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, looking over his shoulder at the fuming housekeeper.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, my bucket—the one that I use to mop. What have you done with it?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I find it most unfair that you immediately assume that I am the—"

"Holmes!" came a cry from the other room. The detective flinched. Mrs. Hudson turned around to see Dr. Watson, holding a bucket filled with swamp water.

"What," said the irate doctor. "Is this doing in our bathroom?"

Holmes looked from the housekeeper to Watson before saying, "I needed to see the effects that phosphorus has on _Spirogyra_ _Zygnemataceae_." He stood up and took the slime-filled pail from the doctor. "It's of the utmost importance to the case."

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Mrs. Hudson, your bucket shall be returned to you in no time," said Holmes, setting the pail under the table that housed his other experiments.

"No doubt smelling like death," she grumbled. "Mr. Holmes, this is the third thing of mine you've ruined this week."

"Now I shouldn't say 'ruined'," said Holmes, ushering the housekeeper out. "It shall be thoroughly washed and returned."

"But Mr. Holmes I need to—"

"Just a few more days," said Holmes as he closed the door. "Then you shall have your bucket."

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	15. A Quoting Contest

December 13th Prompt from SheWhoScrawls: Shakespeare quoting contest

I'm relating a fair amount of this to my series on Holmes' background: "Holmes at Home" for this one. In it, Holmes' father is an English professor, specializing in none other than Shakespeare.

* * *

"Alright. You start."

Holmes rose to his full height before beginning. "To be or not to be…"

"Oh, be a little more creative than that, Holmes!" I cried. "Everyone knows that one."

He pursed his lips at this. "Fine," he murmured before resuming his overdramatic posture by the fireplace. "More than Prince of Cats! Oh, he's the courageous captain of compliments…"

"Excellently done," said I, folding my hands over my stomach. "If God did all."

"'Tis in grain, sir. 'Twill endure wind and weather," Holmes returned coyly.

I smiled. This was going to be more fun than I thought if Holmes used all his acting skill on each quote. I took up on the weather theme and howled out, "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!"

"Why bastard? Wherefore base?" said Holmes, taking on a solemn, hurt expression. "When my dimensions are as well compact, my mind as generous, and my shape as true as any honest madam's issue?"

"If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended…"

"Really, Watson?" said he, dropping his solemn look. "Puck's final speech? And you call _me_ cliché."

"Alright," said I. "Let's see you do better."

Holmes leant against the fireplace. "I believe I remember most of Benedick's speech after the masque…"

"Well, don't just say so. Let's hear it!"

He glanced at me and I could see that his competitive blood was beginning to race.

"Oh, she misused me past the endurance of a block!" shouted he, slamming his fist on the mantel. "An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her! She told me, not thinking I had been myself…"

"To deal plainly," said I, interrupting his passionate speech. "I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man. Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant…"

"Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus nonfacit monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool."

"How now, spirit! Whither wander you?"

"Through hill, through dale, through brush, through briar, over park, over pale, through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere quicker than the moon's sphere.*" Holmes answered, completing the quote with dexterity.

"I have of late, but wherefore I know not," said I. "Lost all my mirth; forgone all custom of exercise and indeed it goes so heavy with my disposition that the Earth seems to me a sterile promontory."

Holmes smiled and picked up a skull he had on the mantelpiece. "Alas! Poor Yorrick! I knew him, Horatio," said he in a sentimental tone. At a look from me, he cleared his throat and continued, "A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!" He placed a hand over his mouth in a motion of disgust and tossed me the skull. "My gorge rims at it." He then dropped his hand and gave me a smug look over his nose before motioning for me to continue.

I placed the skull on the table next to me.

"Is this a dagger that I see before me," said I, miming a dagger. "The handle towards my hand?"

"Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools," said he, pointing towards Scotland Yard. Both of us to burst into laughter. "…And I," continued he, motioning to himself. "That am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man."

"Now, Holmes," said I. "We both know that you don't believe that."

"That I am a wise man or that I think myself a fool?" said he. He gave a little smile and picked up his pipe. "Either way, it is your turn."

I pursed my lips, trying to think of a good one. "If music be the food of love, play on; give me excess of it…"

"I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy…"

"Cheating!" cried I. "You've already done Mercutio!"

"No where in the rules did it say that I could not quote from the same character more than once," said Holmes with a smile on his lips.

I crossed my arms across my chest. "Holmes, that gives you an unfair advantage and you know it*. I demand that if this is to be a true exercise in your knowledge of Shakespeare that you do not simply quote from the same character over and over."

He stared into the fire for a moment before muttering his consent.

"Alright," said I. "Then choose a different quote."

"I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal," said he. "I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged." At my look he added, "It is not from the same character. That I happened to be in the same scene as that quote is hardly relevant."

"It is somewhat relevant that Mycroft played that part,*" said I. "And would have practiced that speech around you."

"No more relevant than your own study of the subject, doctor," said he. "Were I to bar you every book you've read or play you've seen then this game would already be won. Now shall we continue, or do you admit defeat?"

"Very well," said I, even though I did feel he was exploiting his knowledge of specific parts rather than handling the whole. "Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter as a Christian is?"

"If you prick us, do we not bleed?" said Holmes, picking up the thread. "If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?" He paused for a moment before adding, "And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest we will resemble you in that." He gave a little huff through his nose and fiddled with the Persian slipper. "That is one of the more insightful speeches in my view. It shows the cycle of violence that you and I are so constantly in touch with. It would be wise, Watson, if mankind were to note this one speech, if nothing else."

There was a moment of silence between us as each of us pondered those brutal crimes we had witnessed. Finally, I broke the silence. "Well, Holmes," said I. "I believe that you have proven yourself to be knowledgeable in Shakespeare."

"Thank you," said he, giving a little bow. "Now let us hope that the subject of my literary knowledge can be put to rest."

"There is, however," said I with a little grin. "The subject of poetry."

* * *

*"Through" is pronounced in this series of lines (thu-rah), allowing the lines to be said in a very fast-paced, skipping manner. Try it for yourself if you want! It's rather fun and a bit of a tongue twister.

*In my version of events from "Holmes at Home," Sherlock played, as a student, both Mercutio in _Romeo and Juliet_ and the Fool in _Twelfth Night_. Thus, he is able to quote from them more extensively, in effect sabotaging the game.

*Yes, Mycroft played Malvolio. Yes, they played opposite each other in my version of events. If you want more information read "Holmes at Home." It's all there.

* * *

Well, that was fun! I was really happy to get this prompt since I specialize in Shakespeare. Indeed, I can fairly say that I have spent at least two years of my life with the Bard and his works, if not more, and have toured with a professional production of _Romeo and Juliet_ (as stage manager and sound op., not an actor). I also had the good fortune to play Shylock in a slightly gender-bended production of _Merchant of Venice_, which is partly why I end with his speech.

* * *

List of quotes:

"To be or not to be…" –_Hamlet_; Hamlet

"More than Prince of Cats! Oh, he's the courageous captain of compliments…"—_Romeo and Juliet_; Mercutio

"Excellently done, if God did all."—_Twelfth Night_; Viola

"'Tis in grain, sir. 'Twill endure wind and weather"—_Twelfth Night_; Olivia

"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!"—_King Lear_; King Lear

"Why bastard? Wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, my mind as generous, and my shape as true as any honest madam's issue?"—_King Lear_; Edmund

"If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended…" _Midsummer Night's Dream_; Puck

"Oh, she misused me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her! She told me, not thinking I had been myself…" _Much Ado About Nothing_; Benedick

"To deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man. Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant…"—_King Lear_; King Lear

"Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, _cucullus nonfacit monachum_; that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool."—_Twelfth Night_; Fool

"How now, spirit! Whither wander you?"—_Midsummer Night's Dream_; Puck

"Through hill, through dale, through brush, through briar, over park, over pale, through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere quicker than the moon's sphere."—_Midsummer Night's Dream_; Fairy

"I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth; forgone all custom of exercise; and indeed it goes so heavy with my disposition that the Earth seems to me a sterile promontory."—_Hamlet_; Hamlet

"Alas! Poor Yorrick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rims at it."—_Hamlet_; Hamlet

"Is this a dagger that I see before me, the handle towards my hand?"—_Macbeth_; Macbeth

"Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man."—_Twelfth Night_; Fool

"If music be the food of love, play on; give me excess of it…"—_Twelfth Night_; Count Orsino

"…I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy…"—_Romeo and Juilet_; Mercutio

"I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal, I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged."—_Twelfth Night_; Malvolio

"Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter as a Christian is?"—_Merchant of Venice_; Shylock

"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest we will resemble you in that."—_Merchant of Venice_; Shylock


	16. A Cross Holmes

December 24th from Rockztar: cross

* * *

To say that he was cross was an immense understatement.

"Doesn't Lestrade have any brains at all?" Holmes growled, lashing at the log in the fire with the poker. He brandished the hot poker about, causing me to scoot back further into my chair to get away from the burning iron. "First, he goes and destroys evidence," said he. "Next he arrests a man from Germany when the crime was clearly committed by a Hungarian—really Watson, if Scotland Yard keeps this up my little practice shall scarcely be able to attend to all the ill-solved problems!"

"But Holmes, it is just one case," said I.

My friend turned on me with eyes of fire. "Just one case?" cried he. "Watson, a man's life is at stake! You of all people should be able to appreciate that."

"Yes, I know that, Holmes," said I. "I am merely suggesting that accidentally walking over some footprints in the snow isn't reason enough to shut down Scotland Yard."

Holmes tossed the poker into the fireplace and picked up his pipe. "It should be," he growled. "The police do very little to rein in the criminal world and make it nearly impossible for those who come after them to see through their mess!"

"Now, Holmes, you know that's not true," said I. "What about Gregson?"

He gave a snort halfway between a laugh and a sneeze. "Gregson is one of the smartest of the Scotland Yard inspectors," said he. "Which only goes to prove how fatally flawed they are."

I knew better than to try to contradict him. He was in one of those foul tempers that even the most tantalizing of problems couldn't cure. I shook my head and made my way up to my bedroom.

"At a crossroad, no less!" cried he from downstairs. "I could have at least picked up a trace if it had been going in one direction, but four!"

I sighed sadly and closed my door, leaving Holmes to rant in peace.

* * *

I suppose "rant in peace" is something of a oxymoron, but that was rather the point.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	17. The Alps

I'm afraid this one is somewhat morbid.

Thank you to mrspencil, Ennui Engima, Wordweilder, and Rockztar for their wonderful reviews!

December 26th Prompt from Lemon Zinger: Ten Word Challenge—Unconditional, Horror, Burst, Plead, Friend, Vital, Futile, Numb, Morning, Deft

* * *

_Moriarty._

Holmes all but snarled at his opponent as the professor came towards him across the bank of the hill. He knew that this was bound to happen. As soon as he had heard that the criminal mastermind had escaped, he knew that he would come for his life.

He fiddled with the revolver he had in his pocket. He couldn't remember how it had gotten there. No doubt he had stolen it from Watson upon learning of this meeting.

Then he saw him, just behind Moriarty.

"Watson," he croaked, the name itself coming out as a **plea**.

The doctor looked back at him with terror in his eyes. He was tied hand and foot and one of Moriarty's men was pressing a revolver to his head.

"You didn't expect your doctor to be here, did you, Holmes?" Moriarty said with a wicked grin.

"What do you want for his release?" Holmes said, eyeing the professor with distrust.

"Your life," said he.

"Take it," was Holmes unhesitating response. "Just let him go."

The professor raised an bushy eyebrow at him. "Strange," said Moriarty. He looked from the doctor to the detective. "I didn't expect such **unconditional** loyalty from you, Holmes."

"Let him go," Holmes repeated. He pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed it at the professor. "Let him go, or I will shoot."

Moriarty laughed. "I scarcely think you shall have the time for that," said he.

Holmes felt the edge of a knife against his throat. Whoever's fingers it was, they were **deft** and made for killing. The knife pushed into his flesh, pressing against that **vital **artery.

"Drop the gun, Mr. Holmes," said Moriarty. "You forfeited your life. I do not plan on doing the same."

Holmes pursed his lips in anger before dropping the gun to the ground.

Moriarty smiled and picked up the gun from off the ground in front of the detective. "A pretty little gun," said he, looking it over. "It will be of great use to us in killing your friend."

"No," Holmes cried. He tried to move towards Moriarty—to take the gun away—only to have the knife press further into his neck.

"Oh yes. You didn't really think that I would leave witnesses, did you?" said the professor. He cocked the gun with one hand. "And now we don't even have to use our own bullets."

"No!" cried Holmes. "Please, I'll do anything! Just let him go!"

"It is **futile** to argue, Mr. Holmes," said Moriarty as he pressed down on the other man's shoulders, forcing him to kneel on the icy rocks. He felt the cold bite of handcuffs being put around his wrists. "You've sealed your own fate."

Holmes did not respond. He simply stared with absolute **horror** as Moriarty walked over to his best friend, his only friend, pressed the gun against his heart—and fired. He watched **numbly** as Watson fell to the ground, bleeding profusely from the chest. He felt himself cry out. He felt the pressure increase on his neck.

Then there was a sudden **burst** of light.

* * *

Holmes woke with a start. It was **morning**. The smell of pine trees and the cold air of the Swiss Alps filled his lungs as he looked around and desperately tried to shake off the feeling of dread that the dream had aroused in him. He saw Watson, all in one piece, sitting in the other bed. The glare from the window behind him made him look like a shadow, and for a terrible moment Holmes thought that his nightmare had come true.

"Morning, Holmes," said Watson. He crossed over to the little table that they'd been provided with for the biographer's notes. Unobscured by the light, Holmes could see that his companion looked concerned-almost worried. "I didn't expect you to sleep so late," said he.

"I thought I was being obliging," Holmes replied. "You have been pestering me since we began this journey to get some rest."

Watson gave a little half smile. "True," said he. He shuffled about some of his papers before looking at Holmes again. "Holmes, is something wrong? You seemed… agitated in your sleep."

"It is nothing, Watson," said Holmes, pulling the covers more tightly about him. He smiled wanly and reached for his pipe. "Pray, what sights do you plan on seeing today?"

* * *

Later that day, a young boy came up through the mountains after them, telling the doctor that a woman was sick and dying in town. He nodded through Watson's apologies, assuring him that he would be fine. He then watched as his one **friend** walked down the mountain, out of harm's way, and breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

Sorry I didn't use the verb form of "plead," but I figure that there's a fair amount of pleading going on in the scene without me using the word outright.

Also, I tried to write it so that the dream showed a bit of my hand. I also tried to make it full of the sort of symbolism that one gets in dreams-being tied as symbolism for helplessness, the use of his own gun as a sense of having killed Watson himself, having Moriarty kill Watson by shooting him through the heart. It's very Freudian, but I think it works.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	18. A New Year's Visit

Thank you to Wordwielder, I'm Nova, Ennui Enigma, mrspencil, and Hades Lord of the Dead for their lovely reviews!

December 31st Prompt from Spockologist: A cemetery on New Year's Eve

* * *

"Papa?" I gingerly placed a hand on my father's shoulder. "Papa, maybe we should do this another time."

"No," said he, placing his hand over mine. "No… I have… I have to wish him the New Year."

I bit back tears as I looked down at the headstone—a solid grey block marker simply engraved with:

Sherlock Holmes

The World's Only Consulting Detective and Beloved Friend

1854-1928

Papa had gotten the best he could, but Uncle Holmes hadn't left much in his will for his own funeral arrangements. Most of it had gone to Cambridge University's chemistry department with some money for father and myself.

"Waston, what should I do with fancy dressings?" he had said on his deathbed. "I certainly shall have no need of them. My good fortune has already reached its peak in that I am dying in bed rather than at the hands of criminal man."

I remember Papa smiling at that. "So many have said so," said he.

"And yet here I am," replied Uncle Holmes. He smiled wanly before coughing violently into his handkerchief*.

Papa knelt down by the side of his bed, despite my protestations, and held the other man's hand. "I shall miss you, old boy," said he.

I could see Uncle Holmes feebly clutch my father's hand. "And I you."

The clock struck twelve midnight. Its sound reverberated all the way from the clock tower in the square, as if it were shouting its own cry to the New Year. Papa took off his hat and placed a single red rose on the grave. "Happy New Year, old boy," said he.

I looked away and crossed my arms over my chest in a feeble attempt to protect myself from the winter chill. I wanted to tell Papa that Uncle Holmes couldn't hear him—that he was being silly. Uncle Holmes wouldn't have liked it at all if he knew that he was talking to his headstone. "Blasted sentimental nonsense," he would have said. But Papa didn't care.

"We ought to go," I said. "Your shoulder…"

"Has seen much worse than a little chill," said Papa.

I sighed and looked out over the cemetery towards the road. The cab was still waiting for us, though it looked like the driver was beginning to get antsy. I got the feeling he would leave soon, pay or no. To be frank, I couldn't entirely blame him. "Papa," said I.

He turned his head toward me and I could see that tears had been running down his cheeks.

"You have given him his flowers," said I, trying to keep my own emotions in check. Nonetheless, I could feel a tear falling down my own cheek. "Now let's get you home before you catch pneumonia."

Papa nodded and, placing his arm around mine, walked with me towards the cab.

* * *

*"You've done yourself no good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken stronger men than you. No man ever crossed me and was the better for it.'

'So many have said so, and yet here I am,' said Holmes, smiling." –Thor Bridge

* * *

"Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."—the Naval Treaty

I seem to be in the habit of writing really sad stories right now.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	19. Poison

December 20th Prompt from Sparky Dorian: Poison.

* * *

"Holmes, are you alright?"

"I'm absolutely fine, Watson," said he as he lay on the sofa. "Never better."

"But your hand-" said I.

"Will heal in time," he responded. "You have already seen to that."

It was true. The moment I'd seen his burnt hand I had run to get my medical kit. He had already been trying to clean it with cool water, which was of a great benefit to us both as he was able to get rid of most of the substance by the time I made it back down the stairs.

"It's simply villainous," said I, staring at the letter that was placed on Holmes' chemistry table.

Holmes gave a brief smile. "It is ingenious," said he. "Mixing muriatic acid into the glue used on envelopes! Had I been less careful it should have rendered me unable to use my hands ever again."

"Holmes, you mustn't be so flippant about these things," said I. I crossed over to where the envelope lay. "You could have seriously damaged yourself."

"Watson," said he. "You know I take the utmost care when receiving any mail or packages."

"So I see," I murmured, half sarcastically. He had, indeed, opened the letter in his usual manner, by using a pair of scissors to carefully shear off the top and thus open it. However, due to fatigue or sheer carelessness, he had managed to rub his hand against the inside of the envelope, which contained some of the dangerous substance—no doubt by design.

"Oh, and Watson," said he, shaking me from my reverie. "Please dispose of those biscuits that came with the letter. They smell of almonds and, given the letter, I am fairly sure they are meant to have a detrimental effect.*"

I blanched at the thought and took the tin of biscuits off of the table.

"This is certainly a happy Christmas," said I, examining the tin with dismay. "Poisoned biscuits and an envelope filled with caustic chemicals."

"The lawful have their way of celebrating; the criminal theirs," replied Holmes. "No doubt it would have been an excellent Christmas present to much of the criminal world if I were to die—and a celebrated position among such men given to the man who managed it."

"All the better that they have failed," said I before dumping the tin into the wastepaper basket by my desk.

Holmes gave a short, sharp laugh at that. "Indeed," said he. "Whatever should Lestrade do if I were to succumb to poisoned biscuits?"

"It would be most ironic for a man who never eats to die from poisoned food," said I, trying to shake some of my shock and fear with black humor.

"Hmm..." said Holmes, a wry smile on his lips. "That is true. Indeed, I fear, Watson, that you should have taken the brunt of that particular attack as you would have eaten all of them before I so much as touched them."

"That is completely unfair Holmes," said I. "I would surely have left one or two of the devious things for you."

"Quite true," said he. He got up from his position on the settee and reached for his pipe. Applying some of the shag tobacco to it, he looked at me with laughing eyes and lit his pipe. "The poison would effect your system before you could finish the lot of them."

I smiled and shook my head.

"Speaking of food," he continued. "Shall I ask Mrs. Hudson to bring up something? It is almost a quarter past seven."

I frowned at that and gave a glance to the wastepaper basket. "I'm afraid I have no appetite, Holmes," said I. "These events have quite put me off my feed."

"Well, I shall ring for her nonetheless," said he. At my curious look, he added, "It may come as something of a surprise to you, Watson, but I do occasionally find the need to eat. Besides, I believe Mrs. Hudson can be trusted not to put strychnine in my tea."

"If you continue to play your violin at all hours, I might not be so sure of it," I countered.

Holmes gave a little bark of a laugh before heading towards the landing. "Should I being to turn green I think you would be more than capable of helping me to recover," said he. "And there certainly would be no mystery as to the culprit."

* * *

*There are arguments over whether it is arsenic or cyanide that tastes like almonds. As I do not intend on finding out, I shall leave it up to you as to the exact type of poison in the biscuits.

* * *

I don't think Mrs. Hudson would really try to poison Holmes, but it's fun to think that she might get so upset with him as to slip _something_ in his tea.

Well, black humor is better than no humor. I hope to be ridding myself of this morbid streak with the next few stories and perhaps putting a bit more humor back into Baker Street.

Also, muriatic acid is just a more archaic name for hydrochloric acid. I didn't want to use vitriol (aka sulphuric acid) as it was used in "the Illustrious Client" and would suggest connections to that case.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	20. Caring for the Ill

I apologize for the delay in posting. Work and a tendency for perfectionism have made these last few entries hard to complete. Hopefully the length of this particular story makes up for any delay. Indeed, it is the longest that I have posted in this series.

December 28th Prompt from Spockologist: Someone gets a cold. The other one gets to take care of him (or her)

NB: The "or her" made me think of little Alexandra. Since she seems to have been a somewhat agreeable character to you, dear readers, I decided that I should write something else featuring her.

* * *

"Watson, you are the doctor, not I," said Holmes.

"Yes, I know, Holmes," said Watson. "But with the recent outbreak of consumption I'm afraid that my presence might hurt her rather than help her."

Holmes looked at the small figure wrapped in a blanket on the couch. It sneezed pitifully before wrapping itself tighter in its little cocoon. He swallowed and turned his gaze back to Watson. He had never cared for anyone with an illness, much less a child.

"It's only a cold, Holmes," said Watson, noting the worry in his friend's eyes. "Just keep her warm and feed her some soup and she should be fine. I'm merely afraid that I should make the situation worse if I cared for her… and there is no one else whom…" The doctor's words drifted off. No doubt he was thinking about Mary and how such a situation could be avoided if he only had her to help him. Many things could have been avoided if he still had Mary.

"Of course," said Holmes. "No bother at all."

Watson smiled gratefully and shrugged on his coat again. "Well, I'd better be off," he said. He walked over to where Alexandra was lying on the settee and crouched down by her. "You be good for Uncle Holmes while I'm gone," said he. "And try to get some rest."

Alexandra nodded and smiled at her father. Watson kissed her on the forehead and got up. He gave Holmes a nervous glance before saying, with more confidence than he felt, "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

As the doctor made his way downstairs, Holmes looked at the inert figure on the couch and wondered what exactly was to be done.

* * *

"Uncle Holmes," I said. My voice sounded funny because of my clogged nose. "Papa told me to get some rest."

Uncle Holmes put down the piece of chalk he'd been using to diagram a shoe and nodded. "Yes, of course," he said. He looked over at something behind me and nodded again. He seemed to be doing an awful lot of nodding today.

I tried to see what was behind me, but was too tired. I had been trying to learn from Uncle Holmes' lecture on footprints, but my head felt funny and I couldn't focus. All I could remember was that when it looked like someone was tip-toeing that usually meant they were running because I imagined someone tip-toeing away from a bad guy with a gun. That made me giggle. Uncle Holmes didn't seem to understand why. He'd just looked at me sternly and gone back to his lecture.

"I'll try to be more… more…" I frowned as I tried to think of the word Papa had taught me. "Re-cep-te-tive," I said. "I'll try to be more re-cep-te-tive when I'm better."

Uncle Holmes nodded again. "Of course," he said. "I suppose lessons should be put off until you are well." He walked over to the chair by the fireplace and began drumming his fingers against the chair.

I bit my lip and looked at Uncle Holmes. He seemed at a loss for what to do with me now that we weren't going to have lessons. He didn't seem as frightening as when I'd first met him last Christmas. In fact, he seemed almost to be frightened of me, which was silly because I couldn't do a thing to hurt him—except possibly bite him, but I'd never do that. Then it occurred to me. "Uncle Holmes," I said. "I don't think I'm… I'm… par-tic-u-lar-ly contagious … if that's what you're worried about. Papa says it's just a cold."

"Ms. Watson, I have been around much more deadly diseases in my time than a common cold," said Uncle Holmes, fixing me with his grey gaze.

I looked down at floor. Those eyes hadn't changed. Papa had told me that Uncle Holmes had a penetrating (that means goes right through you) gaze. Now that I was staring down at the rug to avoid it, I had to agree with him. "Y-You just seemed…" The only word I could think of was "funny," but he might've taken that wrong. Finally, a word came to me. "You seem… upset."

Uncle Holmes continued to stare at me for a few seconds then broke out in a grin. "Ah, Ms. Watson, you are truly your father's daughter," said he, sitting further back in his chair and resting the back of his head on his hands. "I am fine. I was simply considering what I could do in order to ease your symptoms. I did not think that such action would cause you to try to ease mine."

Feeling I'd done something wrong, I buried my head in the blankets. "I was just trying to help," I said, my voice even more muffledly because of the blankets.

Uncle Holmes looked at me curiously—as if he did not understand—then said, "Ms. Watson, your father is one of the greatest men I know. To be compared to him is a compliment, not an insult." He stood up from his chair and picked up his pipe, even though Papa had told him not to smoke. He put some tobacco in it, stamping it down with his thumb, before taking a match and striking it against the mantelpiece.

"So you were just trying to think of ways to make me better?"

"Indeed," said he through the smoke.

I frowned for a moment and looked down at the blankets that covered me. "Papa sometimes reads me stories," I said. I smiled a little. "We just got to the one where the lady got a pair of ears in a cardboard box and you could tell that the man was a sailor because of the string he used and then you caught the bad guy and he said that he felt incredibly guilty and would gladly hang for it, which I thought was awful nice of him."

Uncles Holmes knit his brow and peered at me through his tobacco smoke. "Watson has been reading you those stories?" he asked.

"Yes, at bedtime. I usually don't hear the end of them though 'cause I fall asleep, but I stayed up for this one! It was really exciting."

He hmphed at that and blew out a bit of smoke. "Exciting. I suppose that is the purpose of Watson's versions of our cases—to make them into exciting stories." He plopped back into his chair again, sending some ash flying. He looked at my cautiously. "What else has he read to you?"

I thought for a moment. "There was the one with the goose," I said. "And the one with the horse…Oh! I liked the one where you figured out that riddle that led to buried treasure! I asked Papa if he knew of any buried treasure in London and he said that he didn't and that little girls shouldn't go searching for buried treasure 'cause they could get hurt. But I don't mind getting hurt if I find buried treasure and…"

"Hasn't Watson read you anything besides his own work?" Uncle Holmes said, cutting off my story.

I frowned and wrinkled my nose. "'Course! He's read me Robinson Crusoe, Little Women, Alice in Wonderland…"

At that one, Uncle Holmes gave a little laugh. I looked at him and he waved his hand at me. "Nothing" he said. "I simply know the author*. Continue."

"Hmm… Treasure Island, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Black Beauty—that one was really sad." I tried to think of anything else. "Papa tried to read me Paradise Lost, but I didn't understand most of it," I said after a moment. "He said that I should probably read it when I'm older. My favorites, though, are the ones with you and Papa in them."

Uncle Holmes raised his eyebrows at me and blew a smoke ring. "Well, Watson certainly has been educating you, hasn't he? Bringing you up on books and fairytales. Forgive me if I speak poorly of your father in this regard. He is in many ways valuable, but the incubation of the mind is perhaps not his strong suit."

I was about to say that Papa did too know how to "incubationate a mind," even though I didn't know what it meant, when he stood up from his chair and walked over to one of the many stacks of paper that were piled about the room. He looked at it for a second then carefully slid a couple of pages out of the middle. "This," he said, waving the paper about. "Is proper food for the mind. It is a monograph on tobacco ash that I have drawn up in the hopes of instructing the public. You will see here that…"

"Uncle Holmes," I said. "I thought lessons were over for the day."

He paused in his speech and looked at me. "So they are," he said. I could just barely hear him since he said it really softly. He drummed his fingers on the table for a bit, then rushed into the other room so quickly I just barely saw him leave. He came back a few moments later with a larger stack of paper. I slid further under the blankets. I didn't want any more lessons. The last one made my head hurt and it made Uncle Holmes upset when I didn't understand things and I couldn't understand things well right now. He sat down in his chair, set his pipe on the table next to him, and looked over at me. "The objective is to get you to fall asleep, is it not?"

I nodded.

"Then I shall read you a story," he said. "It is somewhat like your father's in that it chronicles-"

"Chronicles?" I asked, not knowing what the word meant. Papa always told me to ask when I didn't know a word.

"Tells the story," he explained.

"Oh," I said and slid further under the blankets, hoping there wouldn't be too many big words that I didn't understand in his story.

"It tells the story," he continued. "Of a very peculiar mystery which I solved and which your father, for the moment, knows nothing about."

"You mean it's a secret?" I asked, suddenly more interested.

He gave a brief smile. "Of a sort, Ms. Watson, of a sort. It is a story which I have written myself rather than relying on your father to write it for me."

"Why didn't Papa write it?" I asked, but he waved away my question.

"Let us begin," he said and flipped to the first page. "I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M. Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton." He paused for a moment, looked at me, then back down at the page. "It was my habit to sit with my back placed to the window…"

I don't remember much of it after that. While not quite like Papa's, Uncle Holmes' voice also made me feel sleepy, especially since he read it in only one tone rather than doing voices for each character like Papa does. I woke once to the sound of Uncle Holmes playing his violin. It was very pretty and I wish I could have stayed awake longer to listen to it. The next thing I knew the music was gone and I was at home in my own bed. Papa was there. He was just blowing out the light.

"Papa?" I said, my voice sounding funny again.

"You are supposed to be asleep," he said.

"I was," I said. "I just… Did you say goodbye to Uncle Holmes for me?"

"Yes, my darling," he replied, smiling at me.

I nodded. "Good," I said. "I wouldn't want him to think that I was… lacking in manners."

"You were a perfect angel, my dear. Now go back to sleep so that you can feel better in the morning."

* * *

*In "Holmes at Home," I had Sherlock meet Mr. Dodgson (a.k.a. Lewis Carroll) as a last ditch attempt by his father to get him interested in literature: "It was much to his chagrin that I engaged the man in a discussion of symbolic logic and declined to mention any of his literary achievements."

* * *

I suppose Holmes isn't quite caring for her as much as playing guardian, but I feel that's really all Holmes is capable of doing for her. Care of the body doesn't quite come easily to him in caring for himself, much less someone else. Besides, Watson had really taken all the precautions ahead of time. I would assume, though it's not in the narrative, that Mrs. Hudson was still in charge of food and probably brought up some soup at one point or another before Holmes got headfirst into his lecture.

Also, did anyone notice the parts that Holmes took out of "The Blanced Soldier"?

Reviews appreciated as always!


	21. A Stolen Skull

This is still going in February. Apologies?

Thanks to everyone who's still reading this!

December 29 from Ennui Enigma: Background on the skull Sherlock has on his mantelpiece

* * *

"Sherlock? What on earth are you doing with father's skull?"

I looked up from my paper with astonishment to see none other than Mycroft Holmes standing in our doorway.

"His skull?" I echoed, turning to my friend in astonishment. "Holmes! You…"

"My dear Watson, I have not desecrated my father's grave if that is what you mean to imply," said Holmes before I could utter another syllable. He was lying on the couch, his eyes shut and his fingers laced over his chest. "Besides you saw him only two months ago. Unless Brother Mycroft comes with family news rather than news of that exquisite crime committed by Herberson in which he has been so good as to engage my services, I should believe that my father is still in Oxford—alive if not entirely well."

Mycroft smiled at this and took a piece of paper from his breast pocket. "No, no family news. It is concerning Herberson as you have rightly deduced."

"Ha! Then let us hear it," said Holmes, sitting up and gesturing to an empty chair by the fire.

"All in good time, Sherlock, all in good time," said Mycroft, replacing the paper. He sat down in the chair indicated and looked at his brother. "I should first like to know what you are doing with father's skull, for it does belong to our father, Dr. Watson, even if it is not his own. Do you know he nearly went insane from the loss of it?"

"I remember that he did cause something of a disturbance," said Holmes as he picked up a paper and flipped to the agonies column.

Mycroft frowned at my friend and gave him what would have been a chastising look if Sherlock had deigned to notice it. As it was, the detective was focused on a particularly interesting piece and took no note of his brother.

"Now about Herberson…" said he after a few moments.

"Where did you get that skull?" said Mycroft.

"I acquired it," said Holmes nonchalantly.

"Meaning you stole it," Mycroft countered. "Sherlock, he has been looking all over for Richard. There's a production coming up!"

"I'm sure the usual plaster of paris kind will suffice," said Holmes as he crossed over to the fireplace. He picked up his pipe before turning to his brother. "Using one would save whomever has been doomed to play Hamlet at least one dinner he would otherwise have lost. Now will you give me the information regarding Herberson or must I go out and find it myself?"

For a moment, the two brothers simply stared at each other, each daring the other to press forward. Finally, Mycroft pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out at arms length. However, when Holmes reached out to take it, Mycroft pulled back his hand.

"At least let me tell him that it is safe," said he. "He has been worried about it ever since its disappearance."

"Would he consider my having it particularly safe?" Holmes said sourly. "Last I remember he would not let me near it."

"You have grown since then," said Mycroft. "In age if not in maturity. I'm sure he will be relieved to know it is in safe hands."

Sherlock scoffed. "I shall not stop you," he said after a few moments. "Now let us hear about Herberson!"

"This is all I have to tell," said Mycroft, finally handing the paper to his brother. As Holmes read over the words there written, Mycroft rebuttoned his coat. "And now, gentlemen, I shall take my leave," said he, getting up from his seat by the fire and heading towards the landing. "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

My friend did not respond, his attention fully focused on the paper he had been given.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft," said I, getting up to show him to the door.

"That is quite alright, Dr. Watson," said he before I could take more than a few steps. "I know the way." With that, he disappeared down the stairs.

A growl escaped Sherlock, and for a moment I thought it was aimed at his brother. However, when I turned, I saw him perched on his chair, the paper abandoned at his feet and a look of annoyance on his face. "Useless," he murmured. "Completely useless. We shall have to wait for some more serious indiscretion before taking action, Watson, than this can pronounce."

"What on earth was that about, Holmes?" said I, settling myself back in my chair. I had been attempting to write up the recent adventures of my friend over the murder of Mr. Thomas Gurney, but was now more curious about this encounter with Mycroft.

Holmes looked at me for a moment with confusion, as if he did not know what I was talking about, but his keen mind soon brought him to my meaning.

"Ah, you mean Brother Mycroft," said he. "It is nothing of any importance."

"That is not what Mycroft seemed to think," said I.

"Yes, well, he has his own opinion on the matter," said Holmes.

I looked up at the skull that so often adorned our mantelpiece. "Holmes?" I said. "Whose skull is it?"

Holmes gave a brief smile and lit his pipe. "An old professor at Oxford," said he. "Professor Burbage. He donated his skull to the English department with the express intent that he was to play Yorrick in the next production of _Hamlet_.*" He blew out a puff of smoke before adding, "It has since become a tradition to have him play the part, much to the chagrin of many a young actor."

"But why on earth do you have it?" said I.

Holmes shrugged, taking another draw from his pipe. "It was of interest to me. As a medical man, you will recognize the scientific use of having such an object."

I gazed intently at my friend, expecting him to say more, but he remained silent. I frowned and turned back to my writing. Clearly, this was not the entire story, but it seemed that Holmes would not give me any more information on the subject. I thought back to when I had first seen the skull, only to realize it had been at its post on the mantel when I first came to Baker Street. So the skull must have been missing for some time, probably before my association with Holmes. However, Holmes' father still searched for it whenever a production of _Hamlet_ was near, if I interpreted Mycroft's words aright. That meant that the skull had to be very dear to him, if he kept looking for it even when he had searched so many times before. I turned a concerned eye to Holmes. He was now reading the agony columns once more, seemingly without a thought to what had just occurred.

"Holmes," said I. "Might it be possible for you to lend the skull back to your father?" He turned his stern grey eyes to me.

"Just for this production, of course," I added.

"I don't think I should get it back if I did," said Holmes as he took a pencil and scribbled a note in the margin of the paper. "Besides, now that Mycroft is off to alert him to its whereabouts, I see no point in changing them. It would only cause confusion."

* * *

* This isn't actually as odd as one would think. There have been several people who have played Yorrick post-mortem as part of their last will and testament, generally people who have been very seriously involved with theatre in life. In this case, Sherlock would later learn from his father that Burbage donated his skull because he had always wanted to act onstage, but had been unable to due to the serious speech impediment he possessed in life. One of his dying wishes had been to appear onstage as the object of that most famous of speeches which he himself could never recite.

* * *

Does anyone get who I named the professor after? It's not Sherlock Holmes related, but it is related to Shakespeare.

Reviews appreciated as always!


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